Colonel H. L. Miller,

Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.


Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears
The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree,
While in the next resound the widow's wail
And weeping of the fatherless. So walk
Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn,
The other with a ghost-like movement glides
Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels
Of life drive heavily, and all its springs
Revolving in mysterious mechanism
Are troubled.
And how slight the instrument
That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb,
Revealing that the glory of his prime,
Is as the flower of grass.

Of this we thought
When looking on the face that lay so calm
And comely in its narrow coffin-bed,
Remembering how the months of pain that sank
His manly vigor to an infant's sigh
Were met unmurmuringly.
Dense was the throng
That gather'd to his obsequies,--and well
The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird
The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd
Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love
Guarded their happiness.

Slowly moved on
The long procession, led by martial men
Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored
Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay
With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside
His open grave.
Then, the first setting sun
Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown,
And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold
Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words,
So shall the dead arise, at the last trump,
Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power,
Sown in corruption, to put on the robes
Of immortality.
Praise be to Him
Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh
Such victory.

Madam Hannah Lathrop,

Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92.


Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketch
Her as she was, in her young matronhood
Graceful and dignified, serene and fair.

--I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn,
With pious zeal, the rural church she sought,
Our rural church,--by rocks o'er-canopied,--
Where with her stately husband and their group
Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat,
How many a glance was toward her beauty bent
Admiringly.
In those primeval days
The aristocracy that won respect,
Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base
In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held
Her healthful influence in society
Without gainsaying voice.
The polity
Of woman's realm,--sweet home,--those inner cares
And countless details that promote its peace,
Prosperity and order, were not deem'd
Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left
To hireling hands. This science she upheld,
And with her circle of accomplishments
And charms so mingled it, that all combined
Harmoniously.
That energy and grace
So often deem'd the exclusive property
Of youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime,
She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower,
Making the gift of being beautiful,
Even beyond ninety years.
And though the change
Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band,
And some had gone their own fair nests to build
And some arisen to mansions in the skies
Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept,
Guiding a household in the same good ways
Of order and of hospitality.

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came,
Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly
As a confiding and obedient child
Goes to its father's house, she went above.

LADY Flora gave cards for a party at tea,
To flowers, buds, and blossoms of every degree;
So from town and from country they throng'd at the call,
And strove by their charms to embellish the hall.
First came the exotics, with ornaments rare,
The tall Miss Corcoris, and Cyclamen fair,
Auricula splendid, with jewels new-set,
And gay Polyanthus, the pretty coquette.
The Tulips came flaunting in gaudy array,
With the Hyacinths, bright as the eye of the day;
Dandy Coxcombs and Daffodils, rich and polite,
With their dazzling new vests, and their corsets laced light;
While the Soldiers in Green, cavalierly attired,
Were all by the ladies extremely admired.
But the prudish Miss Lily, with bosom of snow,
Declared that 'those gentlemen stared at her so,
It was horribly rude,'--so retired in a fright,
And scarce stay'd to bid Lady Flora good night.
There were Myrtles and Roses from garden and plain,
And Venus's Fly-Trap they brought in their train,
So the beaux throng'd around them, they scarcely knew why,
At the smile of the lip, or the glance of the eye.
Madam Damask complain'd of her household and care,
That she seldom went out save to breathe the fresh air,
There were so many young ones and servants to stray,
And the thorns grew so fast, if her eye was away.
'Neighbor Moss-Rose,' said she, 'you who live like a queen,
And ne'er wet your fingers, don't know what I mean.'
So the notable lady went on with her lay,
Till her auditors yawn'd, or stole softly away.
The sweet Misses Woodbine from country and town,
With their brother-in-law, the wild Trumpet, came down,
And Lupine, whose azure eye sparkled with dew,
On Amaranth lean'd, the unchanging and true;
While modest Clematis appear'd as a bride,
And her husband, the Lilac, ne'er moved from her side,
Though the belles giggled loudly, and said, ''Twas a shame
For a young married chit such attention to claim;
They never attended a route in their life,
Where a city-bred man ever spoke to his wife.'
Miss Peony came in quite late, in a heat,
With the Ice-Plant, new spangled from forehead to feet;
Lobelia, attired like a queen in her pride,
And the Dalias, with trimmings new furnish'd and dyed,
And the Blue-bells and Hare-bells, in simple array,
With all their Scotch cousins from highland and brae.
Ragged Ladies and Marigolds cluster'd together,
And gossip'd of scandal, the news and the weather;
What dresses were worn at the wedding so fine
Of sharp Mr Thistle, and sweet Columbine;
Of the loves of Sweet-William and Lily the prude,
Till the clamors of Babel again seem'd renew'd.
In a snug little nook sate the Jessamine pale,
And that pure, fragrant Lily, the gem of the vale;
The meek Mountain-Daisy, with delicate crest,
And the Violet, whose eye told the heaven in her breast;
And allured to their group were the wise ones, who bow'd
To that virtue which seeks not the praise of the crowd.
But the proud Crown Imperial, who wept in her heart,
That their modesty gain'd of such homage a part,
Look'd haughtily down on their innocent mien,
And spread out her gown that they might not be seen.
The bright Lady-Slippers and Sweet-Briars agreed
With their slim cousin Aspens a measure to lead;
And sweet 'twas to see their bright footsteps advance,
Like the wing of the breeze through the maze of the dance.
But the Monk's-Hood scowl'd dark, and, in utterance low,
Declared ''twas high time for good Christians to go;
He'd heard from his parson a sermon sublime,
Where he proved from the Vulgate, to dance was a crime.'
So, folding the cowl round his cynical head,
He took from the sideboard a bumper, and fled.
A song was desired, but each musical flower
Had 'taken a cold, and 'twas out of her power';
Till sufficently urged, they broke forth in a strain
Of quavers and trills that astonish'd the train.
Mimosa sat trembling, and said, with a sigh,
''Twas so fine, she was ready with rapture to die.'
And Cactus, the grammar-school tutor, declared
'It might be with the gamut of Orpheus compared';
Then moved himself round in a comical way,
To show how the trees had once frisk'd at the lay.
Yet Night-Shade, the metaphysician, complain'd,
That the nerves of his ears were excessively pain'd;
''Twas but seldom he crept from the college,' he said,
'And he wish'd himself safe in his study or bed.'
There were pictures, whose splendor illumined the place
Which Flora had finish'd with exquisite grace;
She had dipp'd her free pencil in Nature's pure dyes,
And Aurora retouch'd with fresh purple the skies.
So the grave connoisseurs hasted near them to draw,
Their knowledge to show, by detecting a flaw.
The Carnation took her eye-glass from her waist,
And pronounced they were 'not in good keeping or taste';
While prim Fleur de Lis, in her robe of French silk,
And magnificent Calla, with mantle like milk,
Of the Louvre recited a wonderful tale,
And said, 'Guido's rich tints made dame Nature turn pale.'
The Snow-Ball assented, and ventured to add
His opinion, that 'all Nature's coloring was bad;
He had thought so, e'er since a few days he had spent
To study the paintings of Rome, as he went
To visit his uncle Gentiana, who chose
His abode on the Alps, 'mid a palace of snows.
But he took on Mont Blanc such a terrible chill,
That ever since that he'd been pallid and ill.'
Half wither'd Miss Hackmatack bought a new glass,
And thought with her nieces, the Spruces, to pass;
But bachelor Holly, who spy'd her out late,
Destroy'd all her plans by a hint at her date.
So she pursed up her mouth, and said tartly, with scorn,
'She could not remember before she was born.'
Old Jonquil, the crooked-back'd beau, had been told
That a tax would be laid upon bachelor's gold;
So he bought a new coat, and determined to try
The long disused armor of Cupid so sly;
Sought for half-open'd buds in their infantine years,
And ogled them all, till they blush'd to their ears.
Philosopher Sage on a sofa was prosing,
With dull Dr Chamomile quietly dozing;
Though the Laurel descanted, with eloquent breath,
Of heroes and battles, of victory and death,
Of the conquests of Greece, and Bozzaris the brave,
'He had trod in his steps, and had sigh'd o'er his grave.'
Farmer Sun-Flower was near, and decidedly spake
Of 'the poultry he fed, and the oil he might make';
For the true hearted soul deem'd a weather-stain'd face,
And a toil-hardened hand were no marks of disgrace.
Then he beckon'd his nieces to rise from their seat,
The plump Dandelion, and Cowslip so neat,
And bade them to 'pack up their duds and away,
For the cocks crow'd so loud 'twas the break o' the day.'
--'Twas indeed very late, and the coaches were brought,
For the grave matron flowers of their nurseries thought;
The lustre was dimm'd of each drapery rare,
And the lucid young brows look'd beclouded with care;
All save the bright Cereus, that belle so divine,
Who joy'd through the curtains of midnight to shine.
Now they curtsey'd and bow'd as they moved to the door,
But the Poppy snored loud ere the parting was o'er,
For Night her last candle was snuffing away,
And Flora grew tired though she begg'd them to stay;
Exclaim'd, 'all the watches and clocks were too fast,
And old Time ran in spite, lest her pleasures should last.'
But when the last guest went, with daughter and wife,
She vow'd she 'was never so glad in her life';
Call'd out to her maids, who with weariness wept,
To 'wash all the glasses and cups ere they slept';
For 'Aurora,' she said, 'with her broad staring eye,
Would be pleased, in the house, some disorder to spy';
Then sipp'd some pure honey-dew, fresh from the lawn,
And with Zephyrus hasted to sleep until dawn.

FAR in the west, where still the red man held
His rights unrifled, dwelt an aged chief,
With his young daughter. Joyous as a bird,
She found her pastime mid the forest shades,
Or with a graceful vigour urged her skiff
O'er the bright waters. The bold warriors mark'd
Her opening charms, but deem'd her still a child,
Or fear'd from their grave kingly chief to ask
The darling of his age.

A stranger came
To traffic with the people, and amass
Those costly furs which in his native clime
Transmute so well to gold. The blood of France
Was in his veins, and on his lips the wile
That wins the guileless heart. Ofttimes at eve
He sought the chieftain's dwelling, and allured
The gentle girl to listen to his tale,
Well framed and eloquent. With practised glance
He saw the loveflush on her olive cheek
Make answer to him, though the half-hid brow
Droop'd mid its wealth of tresses.

'Ah! I know
That thou dost love to please me. Thou hast put
Thy splendid coronet of feathers on.
How its rich crimson dazzles mid thy locks,
Black as the raven's wing ! Thy bracelets, too !
Who told thee thou wert beautiful? Hast seen
Thy queenly features in you mirror'd lake?
Bird of the Sioux ! let my nest be thine,
And I will sing thee melodies that make
Midnight like morn.'

With many a spell he charm'd
Her trusting innocence; the dance, the song,
The legend, and the lay of other lands;
And patient taught his pupil's lip to wind
The maze of words with which his native tongue
Refines the thought. The hoary chieftain frown'd;
But when the smooth Canadian press'd his suit
To be adopted by the tribe, and dwell
Among them, as a brother and a son,--
And when the indulgent sire observant read
The timid pleading of Oriska's eye,--
He gave her tenderly, with sacred rites,
In marriage to the stranger.

Their sweet bower
Rose like a gem amid the rural scene,
O'er-canopied with trees, where countless birds
Carol'd unwearied, the gay squirrel leap'd,
And the wildbee went singing to his work,
Satiate with luxury. Through matted grass,
With silver foot, a frolic fountain stole
Still tracked by deepening greenness, while afar
The mighty prairie met the bending skies,--
A sea at rest, whose sleeping waves were flowers.

Nor lack'd their lowly dwelling such device
Of comfort, or adornment, as the hand
Of gentle woman, sedulous to please,
Creates for him she loves. For she had hung
Attentive on his lips, while he described
The household policy of prouder climes;
And with such varied and inventive skill
Caught the suggestions of his taste refined,
That the red people, wondering as they gazed
On curtain'd window and on flower-crown'd vase,
Carpet and cushion'd chair, and board arranged
With care unwonted, call'd her home the court
Of their French princess.

A rich clustering vine
Crept o'er their porch, and 'neath its fragrant
Shade Oriska sang her evening melodies,
Tuneful and clear and deep, the echoed truth
Of her soul's happiness. Her highest care
And dearest pleasure was to make his lot
Delightful to her lord; and he, well pleased
With the simplicity of fervent love,
And the high honour paid a chieftain's son,
Roam'd with the hunters at his will, or brought
Birdlings of brilliant plume, as trophies home
To his young bride.

Months fled, and with them change
Stole o'er his love. And when Oriska mark'd
The shadow darkening on his brow, she fear'd
The rudeness of her nation, or perchance
Her ignorance had err'd, and strove to do
His will more perfectly. And though his moods
Of harshness or disdain chill'd every joy,
She blamed him not, for unto her he seem'd
A higher being of a nobler race;
And she was proud and happy, might she bathe
His temples in some fit of transient pain,
Or by a menial's toil advance the feast
Which still she shared not. When his step was heard,
She bade her beating heart be still, and smooth'd
The shining tresses he was wont to praise,
And fondly hasting, raised her babe to meet
His father's eye, contented if the smile
That once was hers might beam upon his child:--
But that last solace fail'd, and the cold glance
Contemptuously repress'd her toil of love.
And then he came no more.

But as she watch'd
Night after night, and question'd every hour,
How bitterly those weeks and years were notch'd
Upon the broken tablet of the soul,
By that forsaken wife.

Calm moonlight touch'd
A fair Canadian landscape. Roof and spire,
And broad umbrageous tree, were saturate
With liquid lustre. O'er a lordly dome,
Whose halls had late with bridal pomp been gay,
The silvery curtains of the summer night
Were folded quietly.

A music-sound
Broke forth abruptly from its threshold stone,
Shrill and unearthly-- not the serenade,
That thrills on beauty's ear, but a bold strain,
Loud even to dissonance, and oft prolonged
In low, deep cadence, wonderfully sad,--
The wild song of the Sioux. He who first
Awaking, caught that mournful melody,
Shudder'd with icy terror, as he threw
His mantle o'er him, and rush'd madly forth
Into the midnight air.

'Hence! Leave my door!
I know thee not, dark woman! Hence away !'

'Ah! let me hear that voice ! How sweet its tones
Fall on my ear, although the words are Stern.
Say ! know'st thou not this boy ? Whose eyes are these ?
Those chestnut clusters round the lifted brow,--
Said'st thou not in his cradle they were thine ?''

'How cam'st thou here, Oriska ?'

'We have trod
A weary way. My father and his men
Came on the business of their tribe, and I,
Unto whose soul the midnight and the morn
Have been alike for years, roam'd restlessly
A wanderer in their train, leading our boy.
My highest hope was but to hear, perchance,
That thou didst live; and lo! a blessed guide
Hath shown me to thy home.'

'Oriska, go!
I have a bride. Thou canst not enter here--
I'll come to thee to-morrow.'

'Wilt thou come?
The white-hair'd chief, I fear me, fades away
Unto the Spirit-land ! '

'I bid thee hence,
To thine abode. Have I not said to thee
I'll come to-morrow ?'

With a heavy heart,
Through silent streets, the sad-brow'd woman went,
Leading her child.

Morn came' and day declined,
Yet still he came not. By her sire she watch'd,
O'er whose dull eye a filmy shadow stole,
While to her troubled question no reply
Rose from his palsied lip. Nature and age
Slept wearily and long. The second eve
Darken'd the skies, when lo! a well-known step--
He stood before her.

'Was it kind of thee,
Oriska, thus to break my bridal hour
With thy strange, savage music?'

'Was thy wife
Angry at the poor Indian ? Not to speak
Harsh words I came: I would not think of thee
A thought of blame. But oh! mine aged sire,
Thou see'st him dying in this stranger-land,
Far from his fathers' graves. Be thou a friend
When he is gone and I am desolate.
Make me a household servant to thy wife.
I'll bring her water from the purest spring,
And plant the corn, and ply the flying oar,
And never be impatient or require
Payment from her, nor kind regard from thee.
I will not call thee husband--though thou taught'st
My stammering lip that word when love was young,--
Nor ask one pitying look or favouring tone,
Or aught, except to serve and pray for thee
To the Great Spirit. And this boy shall do
Her will, and thine.'

The pale face turn'd away
With well-dissembled anger, though remorse
Gnaw'd at his callous bosom !

'Urge me not!
It cannot be !'

Even more he might have said,
Basely and bitterly, but lo! the chief
Cast off the ice of death, and on his bed,
With clenched hand and quivering lip, uprose:--

'His curse be on thee ! He, who knoweth where
The lightnings hide !'

Around the old man's neck
Fond arms were wildly thrown.' Oh, curse him not!
The father of my boy.' And blinding tears
Fell down so fast, she mark'd not with what haste
The white-brow'd recreant fled.

'I tell thee, child,
The cold black gall-drop in a traitor's soul
Doth make a curse. And though I curse him not,
The sun shall hate him, and the waters turn
To poison in his veins.

But light grows dim.
Go back to thine own people. Look no more
On him whom I have cursed, and lay my bones
Where my dead fathers sleep.'

A hollow groan,
Wrung by extremest agony, broke forth
From the old chieftain's breast.

'Daughter, I go
To the Great Spirit.'

O'er that breathless clay
Bow'd down the desolate woman. No complaint,
No sigh of grief burst forth. The tear went back
To its deep fountain. Lip and fringed lid
Trembled no more than in the statued bronze,
Nor shrank one truant nerve, as o'er her pass'd
The asphyxia of the heart.

Day after day,
O'er wild and tangled forest, moved a train,
Bearing with smitten hearts their fallen chief;
And next the bier a silent woman trod,
A child's young hand forever cIasp'd in hers,
And on her lip no sound. Long was the way,
Ere the low roof-trees of their tribe they saw
Sprinkling the green; and loud the funeral wail
Rose for the honour'd dead, who, in his youth,
Their battles led, and in his wintry ears
Had won that deeper reverence, which so well
The forest-sons might teach our wiser race
To pay to hoary age. Beneath the mounds,
Where slept his ancient sires, they laid him down;
And there the gather'd nation mourn'd their sire,
In the wild passion of untutor'd grief;
Then smoothed the pillow'd turf, and went their way.

Who is yon woman, in her dark canoe,
Who strangely towards Niagara's fearful gulf
Floats on unmoved ?

Firm and erect she stands,
Clad in such bridal costume as befits
The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge
Of her embroider'd mantle, fleck'd with gold,
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast,
As though the spirit of that dread abyss,
In terrible sublimity, had quell'd
All thought of earthly things.

Fast by her side
Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lip,
Blanching with terror, steals the frequent cry
Of ' Mother ! Mother !'

But she answereth not.
She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild,
The deathsong of her people. High it rose
Above the tumult of the tide that bore
The victims to their doom. The boy beheld
The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye,
And held his breath for awe.

Her song grew faint,--
And as the rapids raised their whitening heads,
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide,
She raised him in her arms, and clasp'd him close.
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove
Down toward the unfathom'd gulf, while chilling spray
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head
Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him,
With a low, stifled sob.

And thus they took
Their awful pathway to eternity.--
One ripple on the mighty river's brink,
Just where it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge,
And at tho foot of that most dire abyss
One gleam of flitting robe and raven tress
And feathery coronet-- and all was o'er,
Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge
Sounding their epitaph !

The Rural Life In New England. Canto Second

In the gay and crowded city
Where the tall and jostling roof-trees
Jealous seem of one another,
Jealous of the ground they stand on,
Each one thrusting out its neighbor
From the sunrise, or the sunset,
In a boarding school of fashion
Was Miranda comprehended,
Goal of her supreme ambition.

--Girls were there from different regions,
Distant States, and varying costumes,
She was beautiful they told her,
And her mirror when she sought it
Gave concurrent testimony.

--Many teachers met their classes
In this favorite Institution
Where accomplishments or studies
Were pursued as each selected,
Or their parents gave commandment.
But Miranda was impeded
In successful application,
By the consciousness of beauty
And the vanity it fosters.

--Very fond was she of walking
In the most frequented places,
Fondly fancying all beholders
Gazed on her with admiration.
Striking dresses, gay with colors
She disported and commended,
Not considering that the highest
Of attractions in a woman
Is simplicity of costume,
And a self-forgetful sweetness.

--Men with business over-laden,
Men of science, pondering axioms,
Men of letters, lost in reverie,
She imagined when they passed her
Gaz'd with secret admiration,
Ask'd in wonder, '_who can that be_?'
Backward turned perchance, to view her,
As she lightly glided onward.

--So completely had this beauty
Leagued with vanity, uprooted
Serious thought and useful purpose,
And the nobler ends of being,
That even in the solemn Temple
Where humility befitteth
All who offer adoration,
Close observance of the apparel
Of acquaintances or strangers,
And a self-display intruded
On the service of devotion,
While her fair cheek oft-times rested
Daintily on gloveless fingers
Where the radiant jewels sparkled
On a hand like sculptured marble.

* * * * *

Meantime in the rural mansion
Whence with gladness she departed,
Sate the mother and the sister
By the hearth-stone or the lamp-light,
Thinking of their loved Miranda,
Speaking of her, working for her,
Writing tender, earnest letters
To sustain her mid her studies,
Fearing that her health might suffer
By the labor and privation
That a year at school demanded.

--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd,
Bertha with a filial sweetness
Sought her mother's favorite authors,
And with perfect elocution
Made their sentiments and feelings,
Guests around the quiet fireside.

--Page of Livy, or of Cæsar,
Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro,
From their native, stately numbers
To the mother's ear she rendered;
Or with her o'er ancient regions,
Fallen sphynx, or ruin'd column,
Led by guiding Rollin, wandered,
Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock,
Or through Milton's inspiration
Scanned the lore of forfeit Eden.

* * * * *

With the vertic rays of Summer
Homeward came the fair Miranda.
How the village people wonder'd
At her fashions, and her movements,
How she made the new piano
Tremble to its inmost centre
With _andante_, and _bravura_,
What a piece she had to show them
Of Andromache the Trojan,
Wrought in silks of every color,
And 'twas said a foreign language
Such as princes use in Paris,
She could speak to admiration.

--Greatly their surprise amused her,
But the Mother and the Sister
With their eagle-eyed affection,
Spied a thorn amid the garland,
Heard the sighing on her pillow,
Saw the flush invade her forehead,
And were sure some secret sorrow
Rankled in that snowy bosom.

* * * * *

Rumor, soon with hundred voices
Whisper'd of a dashing lover,
Irreligious and immoral,
And the anxious Mother counsel'd
Sad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter.

--Scarce with any show of reverence
Listen'd the impatient maiden,
Then with tearless eyes wide open
Like full orbs of shadeless sapphire
All unpausing, thus responded.

--'I have promised Aldebaran,
To be his,--alone,--forever!
And I'll keep that promise, Mother,
Though the firm skies fall around me,
And yon stars in fragments shatter'd,
Each with thousand voices warn'd me.

--Thou hast spoken words reproachful,
Doubting of his soul's salvation,
Of his creed I never question'd,
But where'er he goes, I follow.
Whatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it,
Though it were the darkest chamber
In the lowest hell. 'Twere better
There with him, than 'mid the carols
Of the highest heaven, without him.'
Swan-like arms were wrapped around her
With a cry of better pleading,
'Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister!
Gather back the words you've spoken,
Quickly, ere the angel write them
Weeping on the doom's day tablet.

--You have grieved our blessed Mother:
See you not the large tears trickle
Down those channels deeply furrow'd
Which the widow-anguish open'd?
Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister!
Darling of my cradle slumbers,
Ask the grace of God to cleanse thee
From thy blasphemy and blindness,
Supplicate the Great Enlightener
Here to purge away thy madness,
Pray our Saviour to forgive thee.'

* * * * *

'Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me,
What knowest thou of love almighty?
Naught except that craven spirit
Measuring, weighing, calculating,
That goes shivering to its bridal.
On this deathless soul, all hazard
Here I take, and if it perish,
Let it perish.
From the socket
This right eye I'd pluck, extinguish
This right hand, if he desire it,
And go maim'd through all the ages
That Eternity can number.

--Prayer is not for me, but action,
Against thee, and Her who bare me
Stand I at Love's bidding, boldly
In the armor that he giveth,
For life's battle, strong and ready.
--Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it.'

* * * * *

In due time, the handsome suitor
Paid his devoirs to Miranda,
In her own paternal dwelling.
Very exquisite in costume,
Very confident in manner,
Pompous, city-bred, and fearless
Was the accepted Aldebaran.

--Axious felt she, lest the customs
Of the rustic race around her,
So she styled her rural neighbors,
Might discourage or disgust him,
But he gave them no attention,
Quite absorbed in other matters.

--In their promenades together
She beheld the people watching
Mid their toils of agriculture,
Saw them gaze from door and windows,
Little ones from gates and fences,
On the stylish Alderbaran,
And her heart leap'd up exulting.

--Notice took he of the homestead,
With an eye of speculation,
Ask'd the number of its acres,
And what revenue they yielded.
Notice took of herds and buildings
With their usufruct, and value,
Closer note than seem'd consistent
With his delicate position;
But Miranda, Cupid blinded,
No venality detected.

--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her,
With an oriental worship,
As some goddess condescending
To an intercourse with mortals.
Pleas'd was she with such observance,
Pleas'd and proud that those around her
Should perceive what adoration
Was to her, by him accorded.

--When he left, 'twas with the assurance
The next visit should be final.
Marking on his silver tablet
With gay hand, the day appointed
When he might return to claim her
In the nuptial celebration.

* * * * *

There's a bridal in the spring-time,
When the bee from wintry covert
Talking to the unsheath'd blossoms,
Meditates unbounded plunder,
And the bird mid woven branches
Brooding o'er her future treasures
Harkeneth thrilling to the love-song
Of her mate, who nestward tendeth.

--There's a bridal in the spring-time,
And the beautiful Miranda
Through her veil of silvery tissue
Gleams, more beautiful than ever.
From the hearth-stone of her fathers,
With the deathless love of woman
Trusting all for earth or heaven
To a mortal's rule and guidance,
One, but short time since, a stranger,
Forth she goes.
The young beholders
Gazing on the handsome bridegroom,
Gazing on the nuptial carriage,
Where the milk-white horses sported
Knots of evergreen and myrtle,
Felt a pleasure mix'd with envy
At a happiness so perfect.

--But more thoughtful ones, instructed
By the change of time and sorrow,
By the cloud and by the sunbeam,
Felt the hazard that attended
Such intrustment without limit,
Vows that none had right to cancel
Save the hand of Death's dark Angel.

* * * * *

Of the sadness left behind her
In the mansion whence she parted,
Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache,
Deep, unutter'd apprehension,
Fearful looking for of judgment,
It were vain in lays so feeble
To attempt a true recital.

--Still, to Mother and to Sister
Came epistles from Miranda,
Essenc'd and genteelly written,
Painting happiness so perfect,
So transcending expectation,
So surpassing all that fancy
In her wildest flights had pencil'd,
That even Eden ere the tempter
Coil'd himself amid the blossoms
Fail'd to furnish fitting symbol.

* * * * *

Heartfelt bliss is never boastful,
Like the holy dew it stealeth
To the bosom of the violet,
Only told by deeper fragrance.

--He who saith 'See! see! I'm happy?
Happier than all else around me,'
Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him
Whether he hath comprehended
What true happiness implieth.

* * * * *

Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest!
Oh, the dreary night of winter!
Drifting snows, and winds careering
Down the tall, wide-throated chimney,
Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades.
Shrieking ghosts of buried legions.

--'Mother! hear I not the wailing
Of a human voice?'
'My daughter!
'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees.
The old sentry-Oak is broken,
Close beside our chamber-window,
And its branches all are moaning.
'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter.'

* * * * *

But the maiden's car was quicken'd
To all plaint of mortal sorrow,
And when next, the bitter north wind
Lull'd, to gather strength and vigor,
For a new exacerbation,
Listening close, she caught the murmur,
'Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby.'
Then she threw the door wide open,
Though the storm rush'd in upon her,
With its blinding sleet and fury.

What beheld she, near the threshold,
Prostrate there beside the threshold,
But a woman, to whose bosom
Clung a young and sobbing infant?

--Oh the searching look that kindled
'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids,
Searching mid the blast and darkness,
For some helper in her anguish,
Searching, kindling look, that settled
Into heavy, deadly slumber,
As the waning taper flashes
Once, to be relumin'd never.

Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby,
Rais'd its pining, pinching features,
Faintly cried, 'Mein kind! Have pity,
Pity, for the love of Jesus!'

--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer,
Thy poor, failing feet have brought thee
Where the love of Jesus dwelleth.
Gently in a bed they laid her,
Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples,
Pour'd the warm, life-giving cordial,
But what seem'd the most to cheer her,
Were some words by Bertha spoken
In her own, dear native language.
Voice of Fatherland! it quicken'd
All the heart's collapsing heart-strings,
As though bath'd, and renovated
In the Rhine's blue, rushing waters.

* * * * *

O'er the wildering waste of ocean,
Moved by zeal of emigration
She had ventured with her husband
To this western World of promise,
Rainbow-vested El-Dorado.

On that dreary waste of waters
He had died, and left her mourning,
All unguided, unbefriended.
--There the mother-sorrow found her
And compell'd her by the weeping
Of the new-born, to encounter
With a broken-hearted welcome
Life once more, which in the torrent
of her utter desolation
She had cast aside, contemning
As a burden past endurance.

--Outcast in this land of strangers,
Strange of speech, and strange in manner,
She had travel'd, worn and weary,
Here and there, with none to aid her,
Ask'd for work, and none employ'd her,
Ask'd for alms, and few reliev'd her,
Till at length, the wintry tempest
Smote her near that blessed roof-tree.

* * * * *

Heavy slumber weigh'd her downward,
Slumber from whence none awaketh.
Yet at morn they heard her sighing,
On her pillow faintly sighing,
'I am ready! I am ready!'
'Leonore! my child! my darling!'

Then they brought the infant to her,
Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling,
And the parting soul turn'd backward,
And the clay-seal on the eyelids
Lifted up to gaze upon it.

Bertha kiss'd the little forehead,
Said '_mein kind_,' and lo! a shudder
Of this earth's forgotten pleasure
Trembled o'er the dying woman,
And the white hand cold as marble
Strove to raise itself in blessing,
For the mother-joy was stronger
That one moment, while it wrestled
With the pausing king of terrors,
Stronger than the king of terrors.

Then they laid her icy fingers
Mid the infant's budding ringlets,
And the pang and grasp subsided
In a smile and whispering cadence,
'God, mein God, be praised!'--and silence
Settled on those lips forever.

* * * * *

Favor'd is the habitation
Where a gentle infant dwelleth,
When its brightening eye revealeth
The immortal part within it,
And its curious wonder scanneth
All its wide spread, tiny fingers,
And its velvet hand caressing
Pats the nurse's cheek and bosom,
Hoary Age grows young before it,
As the branch that Winter blighted
At the touch of Spring reviveth.

When its healthful form evolveth,
And with quadrupedal pleasure
Creeping o'er the nursery carpet,
Aiming still, its flowery surface
With faint snatches to appropriate,
Or the bolder art essaying
On its two round feet to balance
And propel the swaying body
As with outstretch'd arms it hastens
Tottering toward the best beloved,
Hope, her freshest garland weaveth
Glittering with the dews of morning.

When the lisping tongue adventures
The first tones of imitation,
Or with magic speed o'ermasters
The philosophy of language
Twining round the mind of others,
Preferences, and pains and pleasures,
Tendrils strong, of sentient being,
Seeking kindness and indulgence,
Loving sports and smiles, and gladness,
Tenderest love goes forth to meet it,
Love that every care repayeth.

* * * * *

Thus the little German exile
Leaning on her foster parents
Brought a love that soothed and cheer'd them,
And with sweet confiding meekness
Taught to older ones the lesson
Of the perfect trust, we children
Of One Great Almighty Parent
Should repose in His protection
Goodness and unerring wisdom:
Though His discipline mysterious
Oft transcendeth feeble reason,
And perchance overthrows the fabrics
That in arrogance we builded,
Call'd _our own_, and vainly rented
To a troop of hopes and fancies,
Gay-robed joys, or fond affections.

* * * * *

'Tis a solemn thing and lovely,
To adopt a child, whose mother
Dwelleth in the land of spirits:
In its weakness give it succor,
Be in ignorance its teacher,
In all sorrow its consoler,
In temptation its defender,
Save what else had been forsaken,
Win for it a crown in Heaven,--
Tis a solemn thing and lovely,
Such a work as God approveth.

* * * * *

Blessed are the souls that nurture
With paternal care the orphan,
Neath their roof-tree lending shelter,
At their table breathing welcome,
Giving armor for the journey
And the warfare that awaiteth
Every pilgrim, born of woman,
Blessed, for the grateful prayer
Riseth unto Him who heareth
The lone sigh of the forsaken,
Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs,
To the crying of the ravens,
From whose nest the brooding pinion
By the archer's shaft was sever'd.

* * * * *

Pomp and wealth, and pride of office
With their glitter and their shouting,
May not pass through death's dark valley,
May not thrill the ear that resteth
Mid the silence of the grave-yard;
But the deed that wrought in pity
Mid the outcast and benighted,
In the hovel or the prison,
On the land or on the ocean,
Shunning still the applause of mortals,
Comes it not to His remembrance
Who shall say amid the terrors
Of the last Great Day of Judgment,
'Inasmuch as ye have done it
Unto one, the least, the lowest.
It was done to Me, your Saviour.'

The Rural Life In New England. Canto Third

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay,
Too long already.
I can't manage well
The metre of that master of the lyre,
Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribes
Deftly described. Hexameters, I hate,
And henceforth do eschew their company,
For what is written irksomely, will be
Read in like manner.
What did I say last
In my late canto? Something, I believe
Of gratitude.
Now this same gratitude
Is a fine word to play on. Many a niche
It fills in letters, and in billet-doux,--
Its adjective a graceful prefix makes
To a well-written signature. It gleams
A happy mirage in a sunny brain;
But as a principle, is oft, I fear,
Inoperative. Some satirist hath said
That _gratitude is only a keen sense
Of future favors_.
As regards myself,
Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,
Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my gifts
And efforts have been greatest, the return
Has been in contrast. So that I have shrunk
To grant myself the pleasure of great love
Lest its reward might be indifference,
Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been
More fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:
But this is my experience, on the scale
Of three times twenty years, and somewhat more.

* * * * *

In that calm happiness which Virtue gives,
Blent with the daily zeal of doing good,
Mother and daughter dwelt.
Once, as they came
From their kind visit to a child of need,
Cheered by her blessings,--at their home they found
Miranda and her son. With rapid speech,
And strong emotion that resisted tears
Her tale she told. Forsaken were they both,
By faithless sire and husband. He had gone
To parts unknown, with an abandon'd one
He long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake
Of taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'd
With woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'd
Her curses on his head.
With shuddering tears
They press'd her to their hearts.
'Come back! Come back!
To your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal
Your wounded spirit.'
Lovingly they cast
Their mantle o'er her, striving to uplift
Her thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure
To deeds of charity, that draw the sting
From selfishness of sorrow.'
But she shrank
From social intercourse, nor took her seat
Even in the House of God, lest prying eyes
Should gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work
Enticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone
Waking sad echoes of the days that were,
She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child.
The chief delight and solace of her life
To adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,
Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,
With weak indulgence.
'Oh, Miranda, love!
Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first
Lesson of life. To him, you fill the place
Of that Great Teacher who doth will us all
To learn submission.'
But Miranda will'd
In her own private mind, not to adopt
Such old-world theories, deeming the creed
Of the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.
--Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd
That render beauty pleasing. Great regard
Had he for self, and play, and dainty food,
Unlike those Jewish children, who refused
The fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,
And on their simple diet grow more fair
And healthful than their mates, and wiser too,
Than the wise men of Babylon.
I've seen
Ill-fortune follow those, whose early tastes
Were pampered and inured to luxury.
Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain,
And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert
Childhood's simplicity of sweet content.
--Precocious appetites, when overruled,
Or disappointed, lend imperious strength
To evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.
Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respect
Had wiser usages. Her little ones
At their own regular, plain table learn'd
No culinary criticism, nor claim'd
Admission to the richly furnish'd board
Nor deem'd the viands of their older friends
Pertain'd to them.
A pleasant sight it was
At close of day, their simple supper o'er,
To find them in the quiet nursery laid,
Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath
To peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd
Firm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,
This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,--
Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life
A higher zest.
Year after year swept by,
And Conrad's symmetry of form and face
Grew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win
Approval from the pious, or desire
To seek him as companion for their sons.

--At school and college he defied restraint,
And round the associates of his idle hours
Threw a mysterious veil. But rumor spake
Of them, as those who would be sure to bring
Disgrace and infamy.
Strong thirst for gold
Sprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse
Was drain'd for him, and when at length she spake
In warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd
Out of her presence, or withdrew himself
All night from her abode. Then she was fain
To appease his anger by some lavish gift
From scant resources, which she ill could spare,
Making the evil worse.
The growth of sin
Is rank and rapid when the youthful heart
Abjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft
The mesh of falsehood, may it not forget
What the truth is? The wavering, moral sense
Depraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue
Of certainty, nor scruples to deny
Words utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps
Stifled, and callous. Fearful must it be,
When Truth offended and austere, confronts
The false soul at Heaven's bar.

* * * * *

An aged man
Dwelt by himself upon a dreary moor,
And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard
Absorb'd his thoughts.
There, at the midnight hour
The unwonted flash of lights was seen by those
Who chanced to pass, and entering in, they found
The helpless inmate murder'd in his bed,
And the house rifled.
Differing tracks they mark'd
Of flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil,
And eager search ensued.
At length, close hid
In a dense thicket, Conrad they espied,
His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those
Who with him in this work of horror join'd,
He answered nothing.
All unmov'd he stood
Upon his trial, the nefarious deed
Denying, and of his accomplices
Disclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain
Of evidence to bind him in its coil,
And Justice had her course. The prison bolts
Closed heavily behind him, and his doom
For years, with felons was incorporate.

* * * * *

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'd
In his ancestral home, no words can give
Description meet.
In the poor mother's mind
Reason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone,
Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp,
Having no anchor on the eternal Rock,
She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound.
--She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word,
Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer:
She only shriek'd,
'My boy! my beautiful!
They bind his hands!'
And then with frantic cries
She struggled 'gainst imaginary foes,
Till strength was gone.
Through the long syncope
Her never-resting lips essay'd to form
The gasping sounds,
'My boy! my beautiful!
Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!'
And in that unquell'd madness life went out,
Like lamp before the blast.

* * * * *

With sullen port
Of bravery as one who scorns defeat
Though it hath come upon him, Conrad met
The sentence of the law. But its full force
He fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint
On liberty of movement, coarsest fare,
Stripes for the contumacious, and for all
Labor, and silence.
The inquiring glance
On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes
Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot,
And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd
Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights
Even in this dark abode, not often found
In penal regions, where the wrath of man
Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not
The mercy that himself doth ask of God.

--A just man was the warden and humane,
Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd,
But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd,
And for the incarcerate, careful to restrain
All petty tyranny.
Courteous was he
To visitants, for many such there were.
Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'd
Prisons reforming schools, came here to scan
Arrangements and appliances as guides
To other institutions: strangers too,
Who 'mid their explorations of the State,
Scenery and structures, would not overlook
Its model-prison.
Now and then, was seen
Some care-worn mother, leading by the hand
Her froward boy, with hope that he might learn
A lesson from the punishment he saw.

--When day was closed and to his narrow cell
Bearing his supper, every prisoner went,
The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grate
While the large lamp thro' the long corridors
Threw flickering light, the Chaplain often stood
Conversing. Of the criminal's past life
He made inquiry, and receiv'd replies
Foreign from truth, or vague and taciturn:
And added pious counsels, unobserv'd,
Heeded but slightly, or ill understood.

* * * * *

The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd,
With deadening weight.
Privation bow'd his pride.
The lily-handed, smiting at the forge,
Detested life, and meditated means
To accomplish suicide.
At dusk of eve,
While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused,
Before his grate, a veiled woman stood.

--She spake not, but her presence made him glad,--
A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing round
To expand his shrivell'd heart.
Fair gifts she brought,
Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits
Most grateful to his fever'd lip.
'Oh speak!
Speak to me!'
But she glided light away,
And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said
'Good night! With the new moon I'll come again.'

* * * * *

'_With the new Moon!_'
Hope! hope! Its magic wand
With phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian pool
Of chill despair, in which his soul had sank
Lower and lower still. Now, at the forge
A blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery woke
The romance of his nature. Every day
Moved lighter on, and when he laid it down,
It breathed '_good night_!' like a complacent child
Going to rest. One barrier less remain'd
Between him and the goal, and to each night
A tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell,
Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn.

* * * * *

But _will she come_?
And then, he blamed the doubt.
His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died.
And when the slender sickle of pale gold
Cut the blue concave, by his grated door
Stood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowers
Foretold her coming. With their wealth she brought
Grapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book,
The holiest, and the best.
'Show me thine eyes!'
He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gave
The promise of return, in whisper sweet,
'Good night! good night!
Wilt read my Book? and say
Oh Lamb of God, forgive!'
So, by the lamp
When tardy Evening still'd the din of toil,
He read of Him who came to save the lost,
Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight,
The dead young man, and raised him from his bier,
Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still:
Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly.
But here, in this strange solitude of pain
With different voice they spake. And as he read,
The fragrance of the mignionette he loved,
Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still.

* * * * *

Now, a new echo in his heart was born,
And sometimes mid the weary task, and leer
Of felon faces, ere he was aware
From a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke,
_O Lamb of God!_ If still unquell'd Despair
Thrust up a rebel standard, down it fell
At the o'er-powering sigh, _O Lamb of God!_
And ere upon his pallet low, he sank,
It sometimes breathed, '_O Lamb of God, forgive!_
Like the taught lesson of a humbled child.

* * * * *

Yet duly as the silver vested moon
Hiding awhile in the dark breast of night
Return'd to take her regent watch again
Over our sleeping planet, softly came
That shrouded visitant, preferring still
Like those who guard us lest we dash our foot
Against a stone, to do her blessed work
Unseen. And with the liberal gifts she brought
For body, and for soul, there seem'd to float
A legacy of holy themes and thoughts
Behind her, like an incense-stream. He mused
Oft-times of patience, and the dying love
Of our dear Lord, nor yet without remorse
Of that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects,
And God requires.
How beautiful is Truth!
Her right-lined course, amid the veering curves
And tangents of the world, her open face
Seeking communion with the scanning stars,
Her grave, severe simplicity of speech
Untrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric,
By bribes of popular applause unbow'd,
In unison with Him she dwells who ruled
The tyranny of Chaos, with the words
'_Let there be light!_'
Gladly we turn again
To that fair mansion mid the rural vales
Where first our song awoke. Advancing years
Brought to its blessed Lady no regret
Or weak complaint for what the hand of Time
Had borne away. Enduring charms were hers
On which he laid no tax; the beaming smile,
The voice of melody, the hand that mark'd
Each day with deeds of goodness, and the heart
That made God's gift of life more beautiful,
The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains,
Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err,
And loves while He afflicts.
Their dialect
Was breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him.
But toward mankind, her duties made more pure
By the strong heat of their refining fires,
Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor,
Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad,
And made the happy happier, by her warmth
Of social sympathy. She loved to draw
The young around her table; well she knew
To cheer and teach them, by the tale or song,
Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with her
Till life went out. It pleased her much to hear
Their innocent merriment, while from the flow
And swelling happiness of childhood's heart
So simply purchased, she herself imbibed
A fuller tide of fresh vitality.
Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'd
Their visits to 'the Lady,' counting each
A privilege, not having learned the creed
Which modern times inculcate in our land
That whatsoe'er is _old_, is _obsolete_.

--Still ever at her side, by night and day
Was Bertha, entering into every plan,
With zealous aid, assuming every care
That brought a burden, catching every smile
On the clear mirror of a loving heart,
Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt,
Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship,
One soul betwixt them. Filial piety
Thrives best with generous natures. Here was nought
Of self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'd
Like the life-tree, that yieldeth every month
New fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves
The balm of healing.
In that peaceful home
The fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy,
Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheet
For Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers,
Caroling with the birds, or gliding light
As fawn, her fine, elastic temperament
Took happiest coloring from each varying hour
Or changing duty. Kind, providing cares
Which younglings often thoughtlessly receive
Or thankless claim, she gratefully repaid
With glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bear
Precocious part in household industry,
Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread,
And see the stocking grow, or side by side
With her loved benefactresses to work
Upon some garment for the ill-clad poor,
With busy needle. As their almoner,
'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hut
And gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave
With her kind dole, a wonder whence it came.
--A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing around
The adopted orphanage.
Oh ye whose homes
Are childless, know ye not some little heart
Collapsing, for the need of parent's love,
That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb
That ye might shelter in your fold? content
To make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet
In duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven,
And take your payment from the Judge's Voice,
At the Last Day?
--A tireless tide of joy,
A world of pleasure in the garden bound,
Open'd to Leonore. From the first glance
Of the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath,
On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape,
And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her.
She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ,
And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe,
And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'd
Like living friends. She sedulously mark'd
Their health and order, and was skill'd to prune
The too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine.
She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run,
And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet,
Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'd
The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned
On its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark,
Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by,
Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God.
Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth
And found in every season, change of joy.

--Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eve
Tho' storms might fall, when from its branching arms
The antique candelabra shed fair light
On polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'd
Close o'er the casements, she might draw her seat
Near to her aged friend and take her hand
And frame her voice to join some tuneful song,
Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'd
From those loved lips.
Then, as her Mentor spoke
Of God's great goodness in this mortal life,
Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy,
And how we ought to yield it back with trust
And not with dread, whenever He should call,
Having such precious promises, through Christ
Of gain unspeakable, beyond the grave,
The listening pupil felt her heart expand
With reverent love.
Friendship, 'tween youth and age
Is gain to both,--nor least to that which finds
The germs of knowledge and experience drop
And twine themselves around the unfrosted locks,
A fadeless coronet. In this sweet home
The lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights,
And wintry evening brief. The historic page
Made vocal, brought large wealth to memory.
The lore of distant climes, that rose and fell
Ere our New World, like Lazarus came forth,
The napkin round her forehead, and sate down
Beside her startled sisters.
Last of all,
The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its clasps
And shed its manna on their waiting souls;
Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones,
By Bertha's parlor-organ made intense
In melody of praise, and fervent Prayer
Set its pure crown upon the parted day,
And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep.
Yet ere they rose
From bended knee, there was a lingering pause,
A silent orison for one whose name
But seldom pass'd their lips, though in their hearts
His image with its faults and sorrows dwelt,
Invoking pity of a pardoning God.

--Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebe
Stirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charms
To Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast,
Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes,
Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eld
With snow upon his temples, peaceful sits
In his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest.

* * * * *

Once, at that season when the ices shrink
Befere the vernal equinox, at morn
There was no movement in the Lady's room,
Who prized the early hours like molten gold,
And ever rose before the kingly Sun.

--On the white pillow still reposed her head,
Her cheek upon her hand. She had retired
In health, affection's words, and trustful prayers
Hallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'd
Unwonted smoothness, and the smile was there
Set as a seal, with which the call she heard,
'_Come! sister-spirit!_'
She had gain'd the wish
Oft utter'd to her God, to pass away
Without the sickness and enfeebled powers
That tax the heart of love. Death that unbars
Unto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven,
Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh,
Doth angel-service.
But alas! the shock,
The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt,
And must return no more. As one amaz'd
The stricken daughter held her breath for awe,
God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the Hand
That smote her. Half herself was reft away,
Body and soul. Yet no repining word
Announc'd her agony.
The tolling bell
To hill and valley, told with solemn tongue
That death had been among them, and at door
And window listening, aged crone and child
Counted its strokes, a stroke for every year,
And predicated thence, as best they might,
Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd,
Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all.

--A village funeral is a thing that warns
All from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound,
Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire
Who goeth to his grave. But rural life
Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy.
True sorrow was there at these obsequies,
For all the poor were mourners. There the old
Came in the garments she had given, bow'd down
With their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks
In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear.
The young were weepers, for their memories stored
Many a gentle word, and precept kind,
Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd
Their little ones above the coffin's side
To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed
Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept
Among the flowers that on her pillow lay.

* * * * *

He's but a tyro in the school of grief
Who hath not from the victor-tomb return'd
Unto his rifled home. The utter weight
Of whelming desolation doth not fall
Till the last rites are paid. The cares of love
Having no longer scope, withdraw their shield,
And even the seat whereon the lost one sate,
The pen he held, the cup from which he drank,
Launch their keen darts against the festering soul.

--The lonely daughter, never since her birth
Divided from the mother, having known
No separate pleasure, or secreted thought,
With deep humility resumed her course
Of daily duty and philanthropy,
Not murmuring, but remembering His great love
Who lent so long that blessing beyond price,
And from her broken censer offering still
Incense of praise.
She deem'd it fearful loss
To lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain,
Not yield our joys, but have them rent away,
And make this life a battle-field with God.

The sombre shadow brooding o'er their home
Was felt by all. The heart of Leonore
Dwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled,
The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tears
Gave the solution to her wasted flesh,
And drooping eye-lids.
Folded in her arms,
Bertha with tender accents said, 'my child,
We please not her who to the angels went,
By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eye
Regards us, though unseen. How oft she taught
To make God's will our own. You, who were glad
To do her bidding then, distress her not
By disobedience now. Waste not the health
In reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'd
With many duties, and with hope to dwell
If faithful found, with Her who went before
And beckoning waits us.'
From dull trance of grief
By kind reproof awakened, Leonore
Strove to redeem her scholarship from blame
And be a comforter, as best she might
To her remaining patroness.

* * * * *

Within
The limits of a neighboring town, a wretch
Fell by the wayside, struck by sudden Death
That vice propels. A Man of God, who sought
Like his blest Master every form of woe
Found him, and to a shelter and a couch
Convey'd. Then bending down, with earnest words
For time grew short, he urg'd him to repent.
'Say, Lord have mercy on my soul.
Look up
Unto the Lamb of God, for He can save
Even to the uttermost.'
Slight heed obtain'd
This adjuration, wild the glazing eye
Fix'd on the wall,--and ever and anon
The stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen,
While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound,
'_That's he! That's he!
The old man! His grey hairs
Dabbled with blood!_'
Then in a loud, long cry,
Wrung out by torturing pain,
'I struck the blow!
I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped.
Conrad who bore the doom is innocent,
Save fellowship with guilt.'
And so he fled;
The voice of prayer around him, but the soul
Beyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor rose
Sadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatch
A wanderer from the Lion.
But the truth
Couch'd in that dismal cry of parting life
He treasured up, and bore to those who held
Power to investigate and to reprieve;
And authorized by them with gladness sought
The gloomy prison. Conrad there he found
In sullen syncope of sickening thought,
And cautiously in measured terms disclosed
His liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forth
From eyes that opening wide and wider still
Strain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he took
That led him from the cell, and onward moved
Like Peter following his angel guide
Deeming he saw a vision. As the bolts
Drew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'd
To gather consciousness, and restless grew
With an unspoken fear, lest at the last
Some sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinel
Might bar their egress.
When behind them closed.
The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh air
So long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs,
He shouted rapturously,
'_Am I alive?_
Or have I burst the gates of death, and found
A second Eden?'
The unwonted sound
Of his own voice, freed from the drear constraint
Of prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frame
With strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis said
Long stifled utterance is torturing pain
To organs train'd to speech.
With one high leap
Like an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throw
His spirit-chain behind him. Then he took
The Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the way
To his own house, and bade him bathe and change
His prison garments, and repose that night
Under his roof.
With thoughtful care he spoke
To his own household, kindly to receive
The erring one,--'for we are sinners all,
And not upon our merits may depend
But on abounding grace.'
So when the hour
Of cheerful supper summon'd to the board,
He came among them as a comely guest,
Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'd
The hospitable meal, and then withdrawn
Into the quiet study 'mid the books,
That saintly good man with the hoary hair
Silvering his temples like a graceful crown,
Strove by wise counsel to encourage him
For life's important duties,
But he deem'd
A ban was on him, and a mark which all
Would scan who met him.
'He whose lot hath been
With fiends in Pandemonium, must expect
Hate and contempt from men.'
'Not so, my son!
Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing,
Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice.
The good will aid you, and a brighter day
Doubtless awaits you. Be not too much moved
By man's applause or blame, but ever look
Unto a higher Judge.'
Then there arose
A voice of supplication, so intense
To the Great Pardoner, that He would send
His spirit down to change and purify
The erring heart, that those persuasive tones,
So humble, yet so strangely eloquent
Breathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spell
Of magic influence, and he slept that night
With peace and hope, long exiled from his couch.

* * * * *

A summer drive to one sequestered long,
Hath charms untold.
The common face of earth,
The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves,
Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged bird
Disparted, as it finds its chirping nest,
The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds,
The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream,
And azure concave fleck'd with silver clouds
Awaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt,
While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd,
And every accent tuned. But when they saw
The fair ancestral roof through trees afar,
Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried,
'_Not there! Not there!_
First take me to _Her_ grave!'
And so to that secluded spot they turn'd,
Where rest the silent dead.
On the green mound,
His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell,
And in his paroxysm of grief would fain
Have torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach
The mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears,
Heaven's blessed gift burst forth,
'Oh weep, my Son!
These gushing tears shall help to wash away
Remorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin.
Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past,
And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise
To a new life.'
Still kneeling on the sod
With hands and eyes uprais'd, he said,
'_I will!
So help me God!_'
The tear was on his cheek
Undry'd, when to the home of peace they came.
There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd hands
And beaming brow, while the good Pastor said,
'Thy Son was dead, but is alive again.'
A sweet voice answer'd,
'Lost he was, and found!
Oh, welcome home.'
She would have folded him
In her embrace. But at her feet he fell,
Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head,
Till she assured him that a mother's love
Was in her heart.
'And there is joy in Heaven
Because of him, this day,' the good Man said.
--His tones were tremulous, as up he rose,
'Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face,
And hear thy voice.'

* * * * *

What were the glowing thoughts
Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took
His homeward way? The joy of others flow'd
O'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide
Whose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well
His source of happiness?
There are, who mix
Pride and ambition with their services
Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells
Upon the garments of the Jewish priest
Draw down his thoughts from God?
The mitred brow,
Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls
That struggle in the pits of sin, and die?
Methinks ambitious honors might disturb
The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ,
And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.

--Yet this serene disciple, so content
To do his Master's will, in humblest works
Of charity, had he not chosen well
His happiness?
The hero hears the trump
Of victor-fame, and his high pulses leap,
But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soul
When the death-ague comes. More blest is he
Who bearing on his brow the anointing oil
Keeps in his heart the humility and zeal
That sanctify his vows. So, full of joy
That fears no frost of earth, because its root
Is by the river of eternal life,
The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way.

* * * * *

New life upon the farm. A master's eye
And step are there. Forest, and cultured field,
And garden feel his influence. Forth at morn
He goes amid the laboring hinds who bathe
Their scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toils
Teaching or learning, with such cheerful port
As won their hearts.
Even animals partook
His kind regard. The horse, with arching neck,
And ear erect, replied as best he might
To his caressing tones. The patient ox,
With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cow
Grew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guise
Reveal'd his regency. The noble dog,
O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal,
Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor cat
Oft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning love
Turns into abjectness, crept to his knee
Without reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyes
Regarding him, ere into sleep she sank
With song monotonous, express'd her joy.

--He loved to hear the clarion of the cock,
And see him in his gallantry protect
The brooding mothers,--of their infant charge
So fond and proud.
The generous care bestow'd
For weal and comfort of these servitors
And their mute dialect of gratitude
Pleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toils
That quicken earth's fertility bestowed
The boon of healthful vigor. Bertha found
The burden of her cares securely laid
On his young arm, and gratefully beheld
Each day a portion of allotted time
Spent in the library, with earnest care,
Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd.

--Amid their rural neighborhood were some
Who frankly took him by the hand, as one,
Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'd
To cherish evil memories, or indulge
Dark auguries. But on his course he held
Unmov'd by either, for to her he seem'd
Intent and emulous alone to please
A higher Judge. When leaning on his arm
She sought the House of God, her tranquil brow
Seem'd in its time-tried beauty to express
The _Nunc Dimittis_.
Prisons are not oft
Converting places. Vicious habits shorn
Of their top branches, strike a rankling root
Darkly beneath, while hatred of mankind
And of the justice that decreed such doom
Bar out the Love Divine.
Yet Bertha felt
God's spirit was not limited, and might
Pluck brands from out the burning, and in faith
Believ'd the son of many prayers had found
Remission of his God. His life she scann'd,
Of honest, cheerful industry, combined
With intellectual progress, and perceived
How his religious worship humbly wore
The signet '_I have sinn'd;_' while toward men
His speech was cautious, far beyond his years,
As one by stern Experience school'd to know
The human heart's deceptions. Yet at home
And in that fellowship with Nature's works
Which Agriculture gives, his soul threw off
Its fetters and grew strong.
Once as they walk'd
Within a favorite grove, consulting where
The woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had best
Exert their wholesome ministry, he led
To a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat,
Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpeted
With depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brook
Half-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch,
Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subdued
By strong emotion, he disclosed his love
For Leonore.
'Oh Conrad! she is pure
And peaceful as the lily bud that sleeps
On the heaven-mirror'd lake.'
'I know it well,
Nor would I wake a ripple or a breath
To mar its purity.'
'Yet wait, my Son!'
'_Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heart
To love, and wait?_'
'But make your prayer to God.
Lay your petition at his feet, and see
What is His will.'
'Before that God I swear
To be her true protector and best friend
Till death remove me hence, if she confide
At fitting time, that holy trust to me.
Oh angel Mother! sanction me to search
If in her heart there be one answering chord
To my great love. So may we lead below
That blended life which with a firmer step
And holier joy tends upward toward a realm
Of perfect bliss.'
Thus authorized, he made
Her mind's improvement his delight, and found
Community in knowledge was a spell
To draw young hearts together. O'er the lore
And language of her native land they hung
Gleaning its riches with a tireless hand,
Deep and enamour'd students. When she sang
Or play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute,
Making the thrill of music more intense
Through the heart's harmony.
Amid the flowers
He met her, and her garden's pleasant toil
Shared with a master's hand, for well he knew
The nature and the welfare of the plants
That most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees,
And in their strong, columnar trunks beheld
The Almighty Architect, and for His sake
Paid them respect.
At the soft twilight hour,
He sate beside her silently, and watch'd
The pensive lustre of her lifted eye,
Intent to welcome the first star that hung
Its holy cresset forth. Unconsciously
Her moods of lonely musing stole away,
And his endear'd society became
Part of her being.
In her soul was nought
Of vanity, or coquetry to bar
That heaven-imparted sentiment which makes
All hope, all thought, all self, subordinate
Unto another's weal, while life shall last.

* * * * *

One morn, the orphan sought the private ear
Of her kind benefactress.
In low tones
With the sweet modesty of innocence,
She told that Conrad offered her his heart,
And in the tender confidence of trust
Entreated counsel from her changeless friend.

'Can you o'erlook the past, my Leonore?'

'Our God forgives the penitent. And we
So prone to error, cannot we forgive?
The change in Conrad, months and years have made
More evident.
Might I but sooth away
The memory of his woes, and aid his feet
More steadfastly to tread in virtue's path,
And make him happier on his way to Heaven,
My life and love I'd gladly consecrate.'

* * * * *

Wrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gave
A tearful blessing, while on bended knee
Together they implored the approving smile
Of Him, who gives ability to make
And keep the covenant of unending love.
A rural bridal,
Cupid's ancient themes
Though more than twice-told, seem not wearisome
Or obsolete. The many tomes they prompt,
Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintain
In library or boudoir, and seduce
The school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too.
But I no tint of romance have to throw
On this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pair
Who gladly took the irrevocable vow.

* * * * *

Their deep and thoughtful happiness required
No herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose,
On brow and bosom, were the only gems
Of the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fell
Down to her shoulders:--nature's simple veil
Of wondrous grace.
A few true hearted friends
Witness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smiles
And fervent blessings.
And the coming years
With all their tests of sunshine or of shade,
Belied no nuptial promise, striving each
With ardent emulation to surpass
Its predecessor in the heavenward path
Of duty and improvement.
Bertha's prayers
Were ever round them as a thread of gold
Wove daily in the warp and woof of life.
In their felicity she found her own
Reduplicated. In good deeds to all
Who sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe,
With unimpaired benevolence she wrought,
And tireless sympathy.
Ordain'd she seem'd
To show the beauty of the life that hath
God for its end.
Clearer its brightness gleam'd
As nearer to its heavenly goal it drew.
The smile staid with her till she went above,
Death harm'd it not. Her passport to that clime
Where Love begun on earth, doth end in joy,
Forevermore.